


Vitalogy

by anomieow



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, M/M, Modern AU, Reading Aloud, Scent Kink, Spanking, Sweat, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anomieow/pseuds/anomieow
Summary: Harry Goodsir believes you can never have too many books; McDonald disagrees.
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Alexander McDonald
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25
Collections: Bad Medicine: The Terror Doctors





	Vitalogy

Alexander is just sitting down with a cup of tea when Harry comes home from his errands, flushed from the heat. It’s full summer out, and as he heads toward the kitchen Alexander admires the dark v of sweat arrowing down from the back of his neck, the narrow twin curves of his shoulders. His loose linen slacks clinging almost affectionately to the modest swell of his buttocks. He’s lovely when he’s fresh from the sun, fresh from exertion. But then Alexander spots the book under his arm. 

“Harry,” he says, “another book?”

“I know,” Harry says, thinking of the overflowing bookshelf in the bedroom, invading the living room case previously reserved for art books, souvenirs from travels, first editions. A little stack next to his bed. It’s not that Alexander isn’t well-read—he is, dizzyingly so—but he’s quite content with e-books. Harry, on the other hand—and Stephen, to a lesser extent—prefer the heft and physicality of the actual thing. “I know… No more books,” he says morosely. Then, in a brighter tone: “But this is quite something!”

He hands it to Alexander, a heavy tome with a faded navy cover and the title emblazoned in  
worn text on the title page: _Vitalogy; or Encyclopedia of Health and Home_. 

“It’s quite a curious book,” Harry enthuses. “It’s about health and etiquette and how to run a household in the olden days—and I thought—Stephen, I know, has an interest in such ephemera as well—”

“Ah! A gift then?”

“Erm. Sort of. I just thought—since he’s here so often—”

“He’ll be delighted… inasmuch as ‘delight’ is in his repertoire.” Alexander smiles thoughtfully and extends his arms. “Read it to me, then. Here, on the couch.” 

“I—um, all right. I was going to shower—”

“No, no. Sit.” A trace of sternness, a shift in mood. They sit thigh-to-thigh on the couch and Harry opens the book. Its pages are yellowed and it exudes a faint odor, aged and drily sweet. 

“What would you like to hear about?” He licks his thumb and rifles through to the index at the back. “ ‘Abscesses’, ‘Abuse of Clothing’, ‘Adulteration of Food’... ah, here we go… ‘The Appetites, Sexual’... page 73.”

Alexander takes a sip of tea as Harry begins to read. “ ‘Frequency of indulgence—,’” he begins. “‘On this subject, it is impossible, with propriety, to lay down any certain rule; since much must depend on the health and temperament of the individual.’”

Alexander leans in and cranes his neck as though to read the book himself. Then he slides his arm around Harry’s waist, breathes in deeply. Harry, who’s quite sweaty, pauses. “Are you sure you don’t want me to shower? I’m quite—erm—”

“Keep reading,” Alexander says softly. “I like it.”

“The, uh, sweat?”

“Please,” Alexander says, nestling down to deeply scent the side of his neck and chest, “allow a dirty old man his foibles.”

“Ok, um… let’s see…” He scans the page for where he left off, though it’s difficult to ignore the warmth, the want, in Alexander’s voice. Attempting a neutral tone, he resumes: “‘Nature, however, dictates—except in special cases—that we should eat and drink as long as we are hungry and thirsty; and this, perhaps—oh!” Harry gasps as long, cool fingers glide up beneath his shirt and grasp him by the waist. Alexander turns so his back against the arm of the couch and tugs Harry flush against him. With a sweep of heat in his belly, he feels how hard Alexander is, the curved length of him presses against the small of his back. He sucks in a deep breath and resumes. “‘...and, uh, this, perhaps, as a general statement, is a good, safe rule for the regulation of our indulgence of these particular appetites—’”

“ _Particular appetites_ , hmm?” Without turning, Harry can sense him quirk his brow, see in his mind’s eye his dimples deepen as he smirks. His fingers graze the curve of his hip bone—Harry breathes into it with a soft whimper. 

“Sadly, there’s nothing in here about any of your _particular appetites_ , Dr. MacDonald,” Harry says in a casual tone and with a sly little squirm of his hips so that he’s more firmly seated in the older man’s lap.

“How disappointing. Read to me about something else. Choose a page at random.”

Harry opens to the middle of the book. “ ‘Diet in Hysteria,’” he reads. “‘In this disorder, the diet should be a generous, varied and highly nitrogenous one. Fish or bacon may be taken for breakfast—” Alexander’s fingers are inching their way diagonally across his ribs and chest. He takes a deep, quavering breath and leans back against Alexander. 

“Keep reading,” Alexander murmurs against his neck and he feels the heat of his breath all the way down in his cock. “In fact, I don’t want to hear anything out of you _but_ the words on the page. As much as I love all those slutty, desperate little noises you make, I’m curious to see if you can contain yourself.” 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “If I can’t?” 

He swears he can sense Alexander grin, feel the shift in his posture as he shrugs. “I think a firm hand, then, will do the trick. Do you take my meaning?”

“Yes,” Harry says, a jolt of heat running through him as he imagines himself bent over Alexander’s knee. 

“Yes _Sir,_ ” he corrects, lightly teasing his fingertip over one of Harry’s sensitive nipples. (He makes a funny kind of click in his throat as he swallows a sharp gasp.) “Now read.”

“Ok, um—all right.” His voice is thin and quavery. “Here we are. ‘Fish or bacon may be taken for breakfast—for breakfast—which will be generally more acceptable and better relished… better relished if a cold bath—” he falls silent, swallows thickly. Alexander’s breath is hot and harsh against the back of his neck, and he’s massaging his scalp with his fingers—nose buried in his hair—and with his other hand he toys lazily with his nipples. It’s unconscionable, really. Equally unconscionable is the obscene jut of his cock into the back of him; he tries to adjust position so as to press the flesh of his ass against him but when he does Alexander gives his nipple a vicious twist.

“Read, lad,” he growls in a dangerous voice. 

“‘a, uh, cold bath or… wow… spinal douche has been taken on rising. For the other meals the diet should be as nutritive as the digestive organs…” And so on he reads, for maybe a minute or ten or thirty, and the whole time Alexander paws and mouths at him, sucking a bruise into the musculature of his back just beneath where his shirt covers, teasing and twisting at his nipples, rolling his hips against his back. Harry can tell from the raggedness creeping into his breathing that Alexander is enjoying this as much as he is. But rather than becoming desensitized, his body—sleepy and pliant from the hot morning out—seems to expand into Alexander’s touch, to pool and ebb and hum where he’s touched. He needs something harder, more. Soon he is tense with want, nearly tearful. 

Then Alexander stops him and urges him off his lap long enough to unzip his own fly and pull Harry’s t-shirt off. Then he pulls him back down. Alexander is hard and feverishly hot against the small of his back, his tip sticky with pre-cum that mixes with his own drying sweat. Then he does something that surprises Harry—he licks him. Just with the flat of his tongue he drags a long, wide path up and over the leanly muscled ridge of his shoulder, pausing to nurse at the bruise he’s just made. In the same moment, those long fingers slip beneath the band of his slacks, tracing a lazy circle around his glans. Enough. Harry slams the book decisively shut and arches against Alexander as he closes his hand around his shaft. The sound that comes out of his mouth is indescribable, a kind of broken whimpering moan half-pleasure and half-desperation and all animal. 

Alexander feels his own cock twitch heavily against Harry and, to tell the truth, he wants nothing more than to drive into him. The smell and taste of his sweat, the lightness of him in his lap, the mildly contrarian will in that delicate, intricate, lovely packaging, sparks something primitive in him, something that cares little for the polite niceties in which modern _homo sapiens sapiens_ have bound sex all up. He just wants to fuck him, to rut into him all feral and grunting. He never has, though he’s enjoyed the sight of Stephen doing it so—head levered back by a hank of curls, tears glistening on his cheeks, young welts rising on his back like ancient cuneiform. Stephen sneering, filthy invective tumbling from his lips. The vulgar slap of his body against Harry’s. And perhaps one day he will take him like that too. But today he has a promise to keep. 

He clucks his tongue as he pushes Harry off of him and rises to his feet. “Well,” he says. “I _am_ disappointed, though I suppose I should’ve known better.”

“I am sorry, sir,” Harry says quietly, but there’s a tart edge to his voice that suggests the opposite. As is the rule when he’s being chastised, he keeps his gaze down and Alexander takes a moment to appreciate the sight. His hands loosely clasp his knees and between his slightly spread thighs he’s still hard. His breathing, though, is deep and even; his curls hang over his brow. 

Alexander takes his chin in his hand and tips his face up at him. “You know what this means?” He inquires coolly. 

“Yes, sir.” He risks a swift glance through thick lashes as he pushes his hair back with the heel of his hand. “You’ll have to punish me.”

Alexander gestures to his feet then roughly yanks his pants and underwear to his knees. Then he guides him to the end of the couch and shoves him down chest first against the cushion, his head turned to the side. The warm, pale tone of his skin is lovely against the black leather. His pink cheeks, the pert musculature of his buttocks, the dark hair along his legs. He’s beautiful, and Alexander tells him so.

“But willful,” he adds. “So very willful. Ten will do. Count.” 

A shiver runs through Harry’s body: it’s a charming, unconscious habit of his, whether it’s Stephen (more often) or himself who’s about to punish him, he rolls through this single snake-like undulation, as though to steel himself for what’s coming. Stephen has caned him, lashed him, flogged him; Alexander prefers just his hand and just correctively, as now. He does normally also take Harry over his knee but today he wants this more distant view; he wants to see the force of each strike reverberate through Harry’s small, slender body. The gasp of pain-pleasure, the little full-body spasm in the wake of each blow. And his face. He’ll look, at turns, drunk, dreamy, stupid. For a man with an inclination toward hands-on correction, Harry may well have come to him tied in a bow. 

He lifts his hand and brings it down.

“One,” Harry gasps, his eyes immediately going soft and dumb like a stroked cat. _No punishment at all,_ Alexander thinks to himself, momentarily jealous of how Stephen can make him weep, can waltz him to the pleading, messy edge of his own limits and hold him there til he’s finished with him. But then, that’s not what Alexander’s after. He knows the chaos in Harry’s heart, the anxiety and the darkness. And Alexander, through some magic he himself doesn’t even understand, helps his heart slow and brighten; he brings him peace. 

The second and third blows land where his buttocks slope down to the tender backs of his thighs; the fourth is the hardest yet and lands square across those trembling muscles. Harry’s huffing his breath out in little chops, and has his eyes closed. God, he looks like a man praying. Alexander looks down at him, at the redness rising on his back side, and feels a surge of fresh blood to his cock. _Mine._ He strokes the lower curve of his buttock gently before bringing down the fifth strike, a smart, sharp blow straight across the fullest part of his bottom. Harry whimpers, stiffens, goes limp again. _Mine._

“Are you dirtying the sofa, lad? Let me see.” 

Uncertainly Harry lifts himself and indeed, a rather generous smear of pre-cum gleams, pearlescent, against the black leather. He averts his gaze.

“It’s fine, son—you’ll clean it later, won’t you? Lick up whatever mess we make? Must be clean before Stephen arrives.”

Harry nods, then moans as Alexander seizes his prick and massages another bead out with his thumb. 

“Eager boy,” Alexander murmurs.

“Please, sir, I—”

“Oh—yes! I got distracted, pardon me.” He knows Harry’s perilously close to coming, which would be a dreadful disappointment. With the light, deft touch of a seasoned doctor, he repositions him so that his dick no longer thrusts against the couch with each blow. 

The sixth blow is gentle and the seventh thunderous. Eight is the most terrific of all, singing down with a sharp thwack and punching from Harry’s lips an abrupted sob. Nine and ten sting too, delivered one after the other, and then Alexander’s hands are soft on his back side, massaging and petting. Harry sighs and presses his ass into the air, rubbing, as he does, his eager prick back and forth against the couch.

“None of that, lad,” Alexander murmurs with a final admonishing tap of his palm—something between a pat and a spanking—before spilling into his palm a little of the lubricant kept in the end table drawer. Harry shivers as he massages it in little circles into his ass and thighs before nudging his legs open and teasing his finger over his opening. Harry rocks up onto his elbows and presses toward him, a pleading whimper on his lips. He looks over his shoulder— eyes all wide and dazed, lips slightly parted.

“Fucking Christ, you’re a sight,” Alexander murmurs. “I believe, since you can’t keep quiet on your own, I’ll have to fuck every last moan out of you. What do you think, pet?” 

He twists one finger abruptly in and Harry gives a high whine.

“Yes,” Alexander says with a warm grin. “That’s the idea.”

———

“Please,” Stephen says coolly as he steps inside, closing the door behind him, “don’t stop on my account.”

“Wasn’t going to,” Alexander pants. He’s got Harry on his belly, legs spread either side of Alexander’s, and is thrusting mercilessly into him. With every jab a pretty little moan drifts from between the smaller man’s parted lips; his head is turned to the side and with one hand Alexander holds his wrists in place at the small of his back. 

Stephen takes off his suit coat and puts the Pinot noir and salmon he’s brought into the fridge. Then he walks back out into the living room and watches them impassively for a moment.

“I heard you in the hall, you know,” he says. “Well, I heard _him._ ” He steps closer and kneels next to him, turning his face toward him by a handful of curls. His eyes are dazed, dilated; he seems to barely register the new presence in the room. “He’s quite fucked out, isn’t he, our little slut?” 

“Would you like a go?” Alexander says.

“Maybe when you’re finished.” He rises again to his feet and is about to head back to the kitchen for a glass of water when he spots the book on the coffee table. “Is this new?” He asks, picking it up. 

“Harry bought it.” Alexander says. “You ought to have him read a bit to you. He’s quite good at it.”

**Author's Note:**

> See https://archive.org/details/vitalogyorencycl00woodiala/mode/2up for the text quoted in this story.


End file.
